And I Couldn't Die

You knew you should not have done it. If you would have just kept your stupid mouth shut they would still be alive. Why did you do it? The money? No that was not it. The fame? No, not that either. Revenge? Yes, that was it. You remembered that you told on them for revenge. They hurt you, they tortured you, they drove you insane. They were also your only friends. The only ones who would talk to you, who could even stand to be around you. And you had to go and tell. Now there gone.

They were demons, and only you could see or hear them. People never believed you when you told them of your ability, until you proved it. They locked you away, and watched you wither and die in a small room. You would not eat or drink, because your friends didn't want you to they told you not to, forced you not to.

Then the people saw what you were really capable of doing. You had your friends do things you could not, like open the door to get out. Then they believed you. They saw the demons at work. Then they killed them, and left you alone. Your brain is fried and you can hardly think at all. You want a way out of your mind because it hurts. It hurts like hot knifes being driven into your skull. All you can do is lay on the floor, too weak to cry, to weary to live.

The stack of food trays piled in the corner catches your attention. You think that maybe some how, you could use them to escape. You manage to crawl over to the pile, then take a moment to rest. Sitting up again, you rummage through the heap of rotting food and utensils. Spoon. Spoon. Spoon. Spoon. Not what you were looking for. Paper bowl, paper plate. No. You hit yourself in the head, trying to get your brain to work. Then you remember something.

You pick up one of the plastic trays, and launch it at the two way mirror. It is incredible, the amount of strength you still have. The tray falls to the floor broken. You grab the sharpest piece you fan find and start laughing. You look at the mirror, knowing there are people on the other side watching you so you grin nastily at them and hold the piece to your neck. It hurts a bit but you press harder until you feel the warm blood pouring over your hands. Nobody tries to stop you. The smell of iron fills the air as the sticky substance leaks over your body and you start to cry.

You can not dye. This little trick will not work, you are just making a crimson mess. You will never escape this prison. Even worse you will never escape your mind. Those hot knifes sinking into a pile of mush. You manage to fall asleep and wake up twelve hours later to repeat the cycle.

You knew you should not have done it.